Chapter XXXVIII: Following After

The cabin on the Yantic was a sad, sad home after Amy left it. Since the minister’s festival it had been a house of sorrow, but now, that she was gone,—utterly gone,—a sense of desolation settled there which seemed almost worse than death. It must be a terrible calamity which prevents a New England woman from doing her household work in season. Mrs. Leonard was faithful as ever in this respect; but the method,—that was all changed. Her steps grew heavy, as if old age had suddenly fallen upon her. She went about her duties in a dull mechanical way, never smiling, and never stopping to scold. The cat might have curled itself to sleep on the layers of white cloth that covered the yeasting bread, and she would scarcely have boxed its ears. The poor woman was so still and mournfully quiet that her cabin seemed like a tomb.

It was scarcely better with the strong man, Leonard. He had no heart for work, and yet labored diligently. The saw never stopped in its course without arousing him from a deep revery. He would stand, with folded arms, and watch its glittering teeth eat through the heart of an oak log, as unconscious of its progress as the boards that lay around him. He had fallen away greatly in his person and the clothes that had been a close fit in the winter now hung loosely around his reduced figure. With the farmers, who brought logs to the mill, he was reserved, and they thought sullen. If any of them began to talk of his daughter, which was often the case, even with his kindest-hearted neighbors, he would listen gravely, and make such brief reply, that they ventured no farther.

Sometimes, Leonard would leave the mill for hours, and stray away along the margin of the falls to the ledge of rocks, on which he and the elder Arnold had met in prayer on that cold winter day. The ledge was pleasanter now: cushions of velvet moss covered it with a rich greenness that was kept bright as emeralds by the spray. Great hemlock and pine branches bent their darker tints over it. The waters were all unchained, and rioted gloriously under the warm sunshine. But all this gave Leonard no comfort. He would have preferred bleak winds, and cold, drifting snow. There the good man would kneel down, sorrowful, humbly, and covering his face with both hands, wait for God to have compassion on him. He did not pray aloud; there was no power of eloquence on his lips then. God had smitten him in his love and in his pride, so he fell upon his face, in meek faith, and hushed his aching heart into patience.

One day,—it was the third, I think, after Amy left him,—he had been sitting alone upon the ledge, thinking of her, when a flood of yearning tenderness came to his heart, so suddenly, that he burst into tears and sobbed aloud. His child seemed close to him, drawing him with an impalpable touch of her hands to follow after her. There was something so real in the impression, that he stood up, and wiping the tears from his face, almost smiled.

“Yes, darling, I _will_ come,” he said aloud. “How did I ever find the heart to let you go without me?” A bird, perched upon the hemlock behind him, burst into song, as he spoke, and its ecstasy of music confirmed the pathetic pleading of his heart. He looked up at the bird, thankfully. His soul was fall of poetic faith. Had not God once vouchsafed to make an innocent bird his messenger?

With a lighter step than he had used for weeks, Leonard left the rocks and went home. His wife had been spinning near the door. He saw her through the opening; but there was no whirr of the flyers, no flutter of her active fingers around the flax. He moved nearer and saw that her hands were clasped on the edge of the motionless wheel. Her face had fallen upon them, and by the motion of her shoulders he saw that she was crying. He drew nearer and spoke.

“Wife.”

She lifted her head, and tried to put back a lock of wet, gray hair that had strayed from under her cap. But her hands trembled piteously, and she let them fall upon the wheel again. Leonard put the hair back tenderly, and kissed her forehead; for he saw that the last few weeks had left but little of the original brown for her cap to conceal.

“Oh, Joshua! if I could only follow her! My heart is breaking to see Amy.”

Leonard kept his hard hand on her head,—his face lighted up as he bent over her.

“How could we find the heart to let her go without us!” cried the poor mother, lifting both her hands, and clasping them over his. “She was our only child, Joshua.”

“Get up, wife. Put away your wheel, and make ready. We will follow our child.”

“Joshua! oh, Joshua! are you in earnest?”

“Yes; we will go.”

“How? how?—on foot? Oh, I can walk! You are a strong man, and I haven’t been so well lately, but you shall not outwalk me. How many days will it take? No matter. I feel young again. Can we start right off? Perhaps,—perhaps we might take the wagon.”

“We could not walk, wife. Providence has provided a better way for us than the wagon.”

“Oh, husband, how thankful I am to Providence!”

“We have need. Another sloop will sail down the river to-night. Get every thing ready, and we will go in it.”

Mrs. Leonard started up, and seizing her fly-wheel carried it off to the garret, where she forgot to unload it. Then she came down-stairs again with a pillow-case in her hand, which she carried to a corner cupboard and began to fill promiscuously with biscuit, dried beef, doughnuts, and a quarter section of cheese.

“Where are you going, Joshua?” she called out, as her husband took his hat. “Where are you going?” She had no time to look after him, but tied one end of the pillow-case in a huge knot, and set it down to the floor as she spoke.

“I must go over to town and get some money. There isn’t enough in the house, I’m afraid,” he answered.

“Come back, Joshua, come back. I can’t bear to trust you out of my sight; it wouldn’t seem like a reality if I did. As for the money,—look here!” She went to the clock, opened the narrow door in its case, and thrusting her arm into the opening, drew forth a shot-bag half full of coin, her accumulated savings for twenty years.

“I don’t know what it will cost,” she said, seating herself, and pouring the money into her lap; “but here must be enough and to spare. I saved every sixpence of it for her ‘setting-out,’ but you shall have it all. I ought to have been ashamed to hoard it up away from you, though it was for her. Here,—just put it back into the bag; my hands shake so, I can’t. But it’s with joy,—don’t think it’s with any thing but joy, husband.”

I am afraid that Leonard’s hands were not quite steady as he gathered the money from his wife’s lap and put it in the shot-bag again. He was thinking how much in his superior intellect he had underrated that genuine womanly nature. Now that affection had refined and elevated her he could see how good she was.

In a house like that there was little need of elaborate preparation. A second pillow-case was soon filled with the last articles of Mrs. Leonard’s wardrobe, and a pair of saddle-bags proved sufficient for Leonard’s Sunday clothes and a change or two of linen. When these were placed in the one-horse wagon, Leonard went down to the mill and posted a written notice of his absence in a conspicuous place, while his wife drew in the leathern latch-string and crept out of the window, with full assurance that their property would be safe till their return.

The reader must understand that a journey, or rather voyage, from Norwich to New Haven was a momentous undertaking in those times, and on ordinary occasions produced no little excitement. But though the bustle of preparation lifted this good couple out of their sorrow for a time, it had no power to make them forget how painful was the errand which took them from home. Sudden as her departure had been, Mrs. Leonard bethought herself of Hagar, who might have some message to send to her mistress, and asked her husband to drive round by the homestead on his way to the sloop.

They found Hagar in a state of benign happiness. Her reconciliation with Dan had been followed by so many loving protestations, and their future store of bliss had been so completely discussed, that Hagar took upon herself the dignity of a married woman at once, though she held poor Dan at a tremendous distance in fact, and kept him in a state of probation that tested his constancy to the utmost. Never in his whole life had Dan, in a given time, rolled so many back-logs, split so much oven-wood, or shelled so many baskets of corn, or had proved his desire to please Hagar, since the family went away.

When the Leonards drove up, Hagar was standing at the front-door, shading her eyes with one hand, at a loss to make out who her visitors were. But the moment she recognized them, the hand fell, and she hurried out to the gate, rejoiced to see the good couple abroad again.

“Why, Miss Arnold, am dat you? Well, if yer don’t both look jest as nat’ral as can be, only a leetle more so. If I wasn’t a-tellin’ our Daniel dis ’ere mornin’,—sez I, Dan, I’d give all my old shoes, and yourn to boot, jest ter see neighbor Leonard and his wife a-comin’ ober here ter take tea wid our folks, jest as dey were usen ter; and sez he, ‘Hagar,’ sez he, ‘it ed make my ferlicity too extra arter what you and I knows on.’ But come in. Gracious me, yer don’t say as yer won’t get out! What, goin’ ’way from hum! Goin’ in de sloop ter New Haven! See our folks! Why, yer eenamost skare the breath out ob dis body. Well, anyhow, yer must come in, if it’s only ter tell ’em how yer found things a-goin’ on. I never should git ober it if yer didn’t.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Leonard, always ready to make others happy in her homely way,—“very well, Hagar. We’ll just step into the kitchen and take a drink of milk. We come away in such a hurry that both of us forgot about dinner.”

“Yer welcome ter ebery ting in de house, and I reckon yer won’t find any ting a-going wrong ter tell our folks about.”

Hagar marched into the house, and led the way from room to room, insisting that Mrs. Leonard should satisfy herself of the good condition, and report accordingly, till they at length landed in the kitchen.

“Now,” said Hagar, “you jest set down and kinder rest a minute, while Mr. Leonard gibs a peek inter de barn. I reckon he’ll find Mr. Daniel hard at work. Now, I tell yer, Mr. Leonard, that inderwidual is awful smart, awful.”

With her black face all in a quiver of delight, Hagar flung the barn-door wide open, and revealed Dan sitting astride a shovel, which was placed with the handle on a log of wood, and the iron part resting on the edge of a huge corn-basket, which he should have been filling with kernels. His arms were folded loosely, and his black face fell on his bosom. He was fast asleep. Hagar started forward, leaving Leonard in the background.

“Dan, yer lazy nigger,” she cried, stung with mortification, “am dis der way yer shells corn?”

Dan started up, blinked his eyes like an owl, and making a dive at the pile of ears heaped near him, dashed one against the edge of the shovel, and sent the corn flying like golden rain into the basket.

Hagar, a little mollified, went close to him.

“Oh, Dan! Dan! how could yer?—afore folks, too!”

Dan held his ear of corn motionless against the edge of the shovel, and lifted his eyes to Hagar.

“Yer didn’t think as dis chile was ’sleep, now, did yer, Hagar? Not a bit on it. I was only a remuneratin’ ober der sea ob ferlicity dat dis cullud pusson is a-sailin’ in. I’se so happy, Hagar, dat now and den I must stop work ter take a dive.”

Hagar folded her arms, and looking severely down on her lover shook her head.

“Oh, Dan, Dan, ’tain’t ob no use ter play possum wid me. I knows ye.”

“In course yer dus. Who has got a right ter know me if yer hasn’t?” answered Dan, benignly. “I’d like ter see any udder woman dar;” whereupon Dan fell diligently to his work, and Hagar followed Mr. Leonard, who had returned to the house and was helping his wife into the wagon.

Hagar came up, out of breath.

“Now Mrs. Leonard, you jes’ gib our bes’ love to de folks, and tell ’em ebbery ting is going on splendid at der farm. Yer kin say as Mr. Daniel works so hard, night an’ day, dat he gets clar tuckered out, and eenamost falls ’sleep ober der corn-basket. Yer might a-seen him yerself.”

“I will tell them that every thing is going on right,” said Leonard, kindly.

“And ’bout Miss Amy,” said Hagar, leaning over the wagon-wheel, and speaking in a low voice,—“tell her as I tinks ’bout her a sight, and if she’s got a frien’ on earth, it’s Hagar. Don’t fergit ter say dat.”

Mrs. Leonard reached forth her hand, and shook that which Hagar held forth.

“Good-by, Hagar, good-by. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor girl,—be sure of that, Hagar. Good-by.”

The wagon was on its way, and Mrs. Leonard sent back the last words like a benediction. That night the good woman sat in the little close cabin of the sloop, a good deal saddened after the excitement of getting off. With every sound on deck she would start, look eagerly at her husband, and say,—

“Joshua, are we sailing? Has she left the shore?”

At last there was a great tumult over head; the loud tramp of feet, the rushing of cable, and a loud voice giving orders; then a continued vibration, a long, swinging motion, and the sloop was on her course.